


throw open the doors of intercourse [interlude]

by escherzo



Series: by the inscrutable decree of Providence [9]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (but it never ends), Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mostly Pwp, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, can be read as a standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29035773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “Jon, I thought you were--oh,” Martin says from the doorway, stopping short. His eyes go very wide as he drinks in the sight of Jon. Of the shirt that used to be his rucked up around Jon's middle. The curve of Jon's belly, growing heavier with his child. The way Jon's palm is lightly pressed against himself, his delicate fingers and slightly-spread legs.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: by the inscrutable decree of Providence [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973212
Comments: 21
Kudos: 99





	throw open the doors of intercourse [interlude]

**Author's Note:**

> I point very firmly in my cowriter's direction for whose fault that title is. It is, as the others have been, a Scarlet Letter reference. 
> 
> This is a little one-evening snapshot set ~month 5 for Jon. If you haven't read the rest of the series, the cliffs notes necessary for this one: Jon's pregnant. The apocalypse did not happen as scheduled. Also, they've recently decided they're going to embrace being monsters instead of Jon, y'know. Starving. That is substantially more explored elsewhere in the series - just passing mentions here. This is pretty much just me going "well, I did say I was going to write some PWP pregnancy fic..." because it's been kind of a crummy week and safehouse sappiness never fails when it comes to making me feel better. I used the word belly about eighteen times more than anyone ever should in this fic. (Also, a FYI, I've used 'cock' as the word for Jon's bits and didn't refer to his chest)

There is a chill in the air that never quite fades; the crisp air of spring has begun to howl through the hills, bringing with it the smell of a land on the cusp of rain, even on days when the sky is clear and the strengthening sun warms the world. The world is coming alive, the leaves unfurling and turning vibrant green, fresh shoots poking up through the tangled brown remnants of last year's weeds, but the earth, when Jon steps across it in bare feet and lets his toes sink into mud that is finally, blissfully, not covered in snow, is cold. He lingers for a long time, knelt down with his fingers sunk into the earth, the heaviness in his belly a constant reminder as he tucks his fingers underneath the networks of roots and tugs them out. Clearing the soil to let the new growth flourish. Today, he is cut short; the clear sky above him fades into the rolling, deep grey clouds of a threatening storm, and he is barely inside before the rain begins to pound so loudly it makes the roof of the safehouse clatter with it 

“Could be worse,” Martin says, later, standing with his back to Jon as he pours two cups of tea, his voice pitched just above the din. “There was that hole over there, in the corner—we'd be flooded out in no time if I hadn't patched it this winter.” There's still a faint spot of damp on the ceiling from where the hole had been, and Jon takes the offered cup of tea with a quiet smile and burrows further into his pile of blankets on the couch. 

“Yes, yes,” he says, blowing on his tea instead of looking up. “You're very impressive.” It had been a production; Jon had tried to help, only to be shooed away because getting onto the roof was _dangerous_ in his condition, or so Martin insisted, only for Martin to pause and say, ten minutes into the proceedings, “... Jon? Do _you_ Know how to patch a roof?” Jon doesn't mention it, but his smile widens a little at the memory.

Martin settles in beside him and tucks an arm in under the blankets to curve possessively over the growing swell of Jon's belly. Sometimes, if they both hold very still, they can feel her kick, the tiny little flutters that still make Jon gasp and Martin's eyes fill with tears. It feels very real, now, five months in. She is growing, now, well-fed and reaching out for the world, springing up into life as surely as the tangled mess of weeds in the front that go a deep, vibrant green after the rain.

It's strange; so much of Jon is still in disbelief that he can have this. That as his belly swells he can make peace with it now. That he can look in the mirror and smile at the promise of a future of three. It should frighten him. It did frighten him. It should make him focus on so many other things about his body, all of the ways his brain can eat at him about the width of his hips or the curve of his frame. But instead, all he finds, now that the hunger no longer drowns out anything else, is a strange sense of peace. She will grow, and he will grow with her, and they will tend this little garden of himself until she is ready to bloom. 

“It's really coming down,” Martin says, looking up at the roof with a nervous slant to his mouth, and Jon leans over to rest his head on Martin's shoulder. The clouds, grey and thick with rain, are low today, a blanketing, pouring fog that cradles their little home and makes Jon think of embracing Martin within the Lonely. The way everything seemed so quiet and so loud all at once. 

“Yeah,” he says, instead, and closes his eyes, his hand coming to rest on his belly beside Martin's. She moves and squirms and he loses his breath for a moment at the sensation, and he cannot help but smile. He finds it comes easier these days. 

Martin leans over to pick up his book from the rickety old table to the side of the couch and curls in closer, and Jon closes his eyes and lets his mind drift for a while, sipping his tea and thinking of nothing but the gentle movements of his child and the soft, loving curl of Martin's voice. 

*

The rain has slowed to a gentle drizzle by nightfall, a distant drumbeat that makes Jon's eyes feel heavy as he crawls into bed, burrowing under the piles of blankets they have collected over the last few months, the only protection against the chill of the winter they had. It is still cold at night; outside, the wind still whistles and makes the windows rattle, but in here, in the low light, Jon is safe and warm and contented, hidden away from the outside world. 

He sighs and stretches, closing his eyes, and listens for the faint sounds of Martin, still puttering away as he finishes up the last of the dishes in the kitchen. Distant clanging pans and faint little _blorp_ sounds as the freshly-cleaned dishes are pushed into the rinse water. There is a low curl of heat in his belly, more distracting by the day, his whole body coming awake with a mess of hormones and new sensations, and he nudges the over-sized sleep shirt he wears above the curve of his belly and slides his fingers through coarse dark hair. Not with any real intent. Just giving himself light pressure, enough to take the edge off and ground him. Martin will be coming to bed soon; the sounds of the washing up have quieted, and he shifts so that he is on top of the covers, on display. Martin still has a little of the Beholding in him, after all, even as he has given himself over more concretely to another Power. He still likes a bit of a show.

“Jon, I thought you were-- _oh_ ,” Martin says from the doorway, stopping short. His eyes go very wide as he drinks in the sight of Jon. Of the shirt that used to be his rucked up around Jon's middle. The curve of Jon's belly, growing heavier with his child. The way Jon's palm is lightly pressed against himself, his delicate fingers and slightly-spread legs. 

“Hi,” Jon says, half-shy and fond, and Martin's eyes go dark and hungry. The heat in Jon's belly sharpens. Twists. He can feel his pulse kick up, and he doesn't need to wait long for Martin to take the invitation for what it is and start to strip out of his clothing. 

Martin's naked body is still a curiosity to Jon, even after all this time. It is not so much lust, something he has never quite been able to muster; he sees Martin, the soft curves of him, the little freckles across his arms and shoulders and the softness of his belly and the thin, barely-there chest hair that curls across his front, and wants to reach out and touch because he wants to _know_ it. A piece of knowledge for himself and not the Eye. He wants to feel the weight of Martin's cock in his hand, wants to listen for the soft, plaintive noises Martin makes when Jon's fingers dance across his skin, wants to feel the way his whole body wracks with shudders as Jon's lips trail along the curve of his ear and his teeth tug at his earlobe. Every time is a new exploration. 

“Hi,” Martin says, and crosses his arms across his middle reflexively, as he has always done, his body curling in on itself to make it smaller, even though he knows that Jon knows every part of him and still is hungry to find what has not yet been discovered. Even though there is nothing to hide from here. Old habits. Jon thinks of the distant hunger curling in his belly, still recently sated and yet ever-present, and can't help but feel a kinship there, in this as in so many other things. But Martin smiles, and kneels up onto the bed with his hands reaching for Jon, and it takes nothing at all to reach back.

Before all of this, he never put a terrible amount of thought to what Martin would be like in bed, but if he would have had to guess, he would have said _sweet_. Gentle. Awkward, maybe. Fumbling in the way that he got when he was carrying too many papers or couldn't quite get his feet to go where the rest of his body went. And sometimes, he is sweet and gentle, but more often, there is a part of him that Jon only sees in moments like this, and loves all the more for it. 

“What do you want?” Martin asks, straddling Jon with his thick thighs and pinning him in, and Jon shudders and goes limp beneath him. Reaches for Martin's hands to wrap them around his own wrists and hold him in place, safe and contained beneath him, knowing that unless Martin wants to let him go he will not be able to move. Wanting that.

“Just—you,” Jon says, and tips his head up obediently as Martin leans in to kiss him. Martin's lips are soft against his, gentle at first and then rougher, and after a moment he whispers against Jon's lips, close enough to make them tingle with the words, “Keep your hands where they are.” He cradles Jon's head in his hands instead, keeping him restrained in another way, and Jon obediently closes his eyes and holds onto one wrist with his hand, hands above his head as Martin moves him, deepening the kiss. Hotter, openmouthed and wet, his tongue curling along Jon's and drinking in all of the soft little noises that Jon makes as Jon's body burns with it. Martin is carefully bent over him, not pressing him down to the bed with his bulk as he used to, with his belly in the way, but there is power in his hands and his thighs that still makes Jon so very aware that he _could_. 

Martin strokes over his belly, his hands gently framing the swell of it, and says, in a voice so soft and reverent, so full of heat, that Jon cannot help but whimper at it, “You look beautiful like this. I wish—I wish I could--” 

“ _Could what?_ ,” Jon says, letting his lips buzz with it, and the words tumble out of Martin, one after another, so quickly he barely has time to blush as they leave his mouth. 

“I wish I could just keep you like this,” he admits, bending down to kiss Jon's belly. “I keep thinking—I did that. I made you like this, all beautiful and round and glowing, I _knocked you up_ and you're—you're carrying our _baby_ , and I don't know what to do with that besides want to kiss you all the time. To keep reminding me that this is real.” 

The words settle in between them and Jon can't help but squirm at the thought, at Martin keeping him like this, and all of the little aches and pains of his hips and his back seem secondary to this, to getting to show Martin so tangibly what they have made together. Jon smiles as Martin kisses down the curve of his belly and then lower, settling in between his thighs. “You did that,” he says, winding his fingers into Martin's hair and sighing as Martin's big hands curl around his legs, pushing them wider. 

His hands are cold, and they dig in just enough to leave the kind of bruises Jon loves. When Martin dips his head and licks at the little hard nub of his cock he moans entirely without meaning to. He licks at Jon with singular focus, and Jon flushes at the wet sound of it as he squeezes his eyes shut, heat curling painfully through him as he tries to shift his hips up into it, but Martin has him pinned like this. He can barely move, his thighs held in place and his belly pinning him further, and he holds onto Martin's hair for dear life as Martin eats him out like he's starving for it. 

“Martin,” he says plaintively, and Martin lifts his head, his lips red, and grins at him, all teeth. He lets go of one thigh, just for a moment, to slowly work at Jon's cock with his fingers instead, so slow it makes Jon ache with it, and Jon whimpers, squirming at the touch. He needs so much. His whole body is alight with it; it takes the slightest pressure to get him going these days, and Martin is giving him just enough that all of his higher thoughts are gone. “Please,” he says again, but Martin doesn't speed up. 

He shifts, or tries to, and Martin shoots him a pleased but warning glance, and he holds himself still. Sometimes, he's desperate for it and Martin is along for the ride, and it's a hurried, messy affair, one where Jon is deeply glad that they do not have neighbors who can hear the kind of noises he's making. Sometimes, it's like this instead. Slower. Not sweeter, not exactly. _Deliberate_. Martin lowers his head again and slowly laps at Jon's cock, curling his tongue in just the right way, and Jon _cannot think_. 

It seems like it goes on forever, Martin pulling back just as he brings Jon to the edge, slowly dipping one and then two fingers into the slick mess between his thighs to curl them inside him, and Jon loses all sense of time, all sense of everything, little pleas tumbling out of his mouth. So distracted that he entirely forgets he doesn't need to breathe and his chest heaves with it, a strange, unfamiliar sensation as all of his nerves tingle. There is worship in this, as there always is with Martin, something so painfully fond and reverent as he methodically takes Jon apart piece by piece until he finally, mercifully, blissfully lets him come, finally not pulling back as Jon's hips shudder under his hands and Jon makes a mess of his face. 

Martin's painfully hard himself, when he sits back up, on his knees on the bed, his long, thick cock gone blood-red and leaking, and the part of Jon that always wants to explore, wants to feel out the secret edges of him longs to touch, to make Martin wait as long as he has waited, to run his fingers along every curve and vein, but more than that, he wants Martin to be inside him. Wants the surety and the weight of it, tangible proof that Martin is here, is with him in this. That Martin will _stay_ with him like this. 

He pushes himself up on shaking limbs and crawls over to Martin, and for a moment they stay face to face, both knelt on the bed, until Martin pulls him with both hands into his lap. It startles a noise out of Jon, a little huff of “ _oh_ ,” but he lets himself be directed as Martin slowly grinds against the swell of Jon's belly. It's big enough that they are both keenly aware of it between them, but not enough that it's truly in the way of them being face to face. Not yet. In a few months, Jon knows, this won't be possible. 

He intends to make the best of the time he has. 

Jon lifts himself up and lines up carefully, his hands still shaking, and even though his body knows Martin, it is still a stretch to take him inside. Still a moment of breathless shaking as his hands flutter against Martin's shoulders and his eyes squeeze shut as he forces himself to relax and take Martin's cock into himself. “Good?” Martin asks, ever so faintly smug as he leans down and bites at the curve where Jon's shoulder meets his neck, hard enough to sting, and sets to work sucking a mark there as Jon's overstimulated nerves shudder with the sensation. 

“Don't get cocky,” Jon says, trying for mild, but Martin shifts his hips and he loses the last word entirely in a little huff of a moan instead. Martin keeps one hand curved around Jon's back, and his eyes keep dipping down to Jon's middle, and it is that that makes Jon lift up and off of him before turning around, back to front, and letting Martin's cock sink back inside. Like this, Martin can wrap both hands around his belly as Jon slowly starts to ride him, his thighs quaking with the effort as he takes Martin deep. 

Martin presses kisses all along his neck, his shoulders, his back. Whispers words that make Jon's face burn—how lovely Jon looks like this, how beautiful, how he's so good for Martin, how Jon is _his_. How he wishes he could keep Jon like this, flushed and heavy with his baby. How he will come inside Jon, but won't need to think about if it will _take_ , because it already has.

“You feel good,” Jon says, soft and plaintive, like a secret, voice breaking into a moan as the movement of Martin's hips grows harsher, thrusting up to meet Jon as he takes Martin deep, and Jon wishes that he could still see the swell of Martin's cock inside him, be able to see the shape of it distend him from the outside as he could before, but this is, if anything, more tangible. More concrete proof of what they have done together. Jon closes his eyes and rocks with the movements, arching his neck to give Martin more to bite, and the sting of his teeth and the deep, drugging pressure of his cock inside Jon have him on the edge of coming a second time, his whole body quaking with it. 

Martin's thick, clever fingers slide down from his belly to rub over his cock, and his world fades out for one long, agonizingly good moment of static, and he is aware, distantly, that he is babbling, words tumbling from his mouth, but they are drowned out entirely as Martin's fingers move, working him through it and past until it nearly hurts before gripping his hips hard and pulling him back. Keeping him deep on Martin's cock as he comes inside Jon, making a mess of him, so deep that if Martin hadn't already gotten him pregnant he would think it was sure to take. 

“Fuck,” Martin says, blowing out a long breath, and Jon can't help but agree. He feels utterly wrung out, only able to stop himself from collapsing onto the bed because Martin's hands still hold him steady at the waist. Martin doesn't let him off his cock for a long moment, even as Jon can feel his cock twitch inside and slowly begin to soften, just rubs his hand across Jon's belly in long, slow strokes, something deeply soothing and possessive in the gesture. 

“This is going to be much harder in a month or two,” Jon says, and Martin laughs a little, burying his face in Jon's hair. 

“Let's enjoy her being small while we can,” Martin agrees, and finally settles Jon back onto the bed, keeping him close as they tuck in under the pile of blankets. Outside, the wind still howls. The rain has picked up again, and the slow patter of it against the roof is the only sound in the silent room save for Martin's slow, contented breathing. Jon tucks in along Martin's front and when Martin's hand finds his belly again, his own joins it, feeling for the tiny, fluttering movements like a butterfly's wings. It only takes a moment. 

“Hi,” Martin says, soft, and Jon can't help but smile. Martin is still caught in the wonder of it all, the knowledge that this is something that they are allowed to have. That there will be a future for them--the three of them. That they will be monstrous, and make their peace with that in all of the little ways that they can, and that they will have her, a tangible piece of love in a broken world, and she will grow. Some small part of Jon still can't quite believe that he deserves it, the part of him that whispers to him at night in the spaces between nightmares, but it grows quieter by the day, reinforced with a careful, purposeful love. 

“I don't think we're having another, by the way,” Jon says after a moment, and Martin makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeak. 

“Don't hold my dirty talk against me,” Martin says. He kisses the back of Jon's neck softly, just a hint of teeth, and Jon shivers with it, even as wrung out as he is. “I'm allowed to think you're hot like this.”

“I know, I know,” Jon says. “I suppose... I think this is something that I'm meant to Know and experience once.” He pauses, lets himself chew over the words, and there's a little sly smile in them when he finally decides to say them. “That isn't to say we can't pretend.” 

He can feel Martin's smile against his skin. “I'd like that,” he says. 

A gust of wind rattles the shutters, the cold night air seeping in through the cracks and making the both of them shiver as they huddle in further into the blankets. But come morning, the sun will be stronger than the day before, and the day before that, and the world will come alive with burgeoning spring. They will make the beginnings of a garden, and someday, it will bear fruit that their daughter will pick, clumsy little toddler legs going down the rows to pluck at the first harvest. 

Jon drifts off to sleep with the warmth of Martin at his back and a gentle hand resting over his belly, and allows himself to think about having a future.


End file.
